


Play a little song for me

by Avengerz



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Brian Banner's A+ Parenting, Clint is actually the most well-adjusted which is shocking to everyone, Fluff, Getting Together, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, I told you there'd be a happy ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insecurity, It's really a lot lighter than I'm making it sound, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Misunderstandings, Multi, Nightmares, Pining, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Teen!Tony, Torture, Touch-Starved, Virgin!Tony, kid!Tony, seriously insecurity abounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-12 07:04:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7090726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avengerz/pseuds/Avengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Music is magical," Jarvis explains, smiling gently as Tony listens, rapt. "It's how you find the other half of your soul."</i> </p><p>Tony Stark is, as in all things, a special snowflake with not one but two soulmates. He longs all his life to find them, but even when he does, things aren't guaranteed to go smoothly. </p><p>The universe, after all, is not in the habit of accommodating Tony Stark's desires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Megeara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megeara/gifts).



> I asked for writing prompts before my nine hour long flight back from Munich, and [hungarianbee](http://http://hungarianbee.tumblr.com) asked me for "Clint/Bruce/Tony, Soulmate AU, where if your soulmate is listening to music, you can hear it faintly. Imagine the migraine they would get, if they all listened to different songs at the same time."
> 
> This was a bit of a challenge for me because I'd never written this pairing before and I couldn't look up any songs whilst on an airplane, but I had a lot of fun with it! Hope you enjoy!

When Tony is a kid, a ghost sings him lullabies. He’s two and a half the first time he hears it (two years, five months, and seventeen days, actually, but his dad says he sounds like a freak when he says that, and Tony doesn’t want to be a freak, so he learns to round numbers even though it’s wrong and imprecise and makes his head hurt).

 

The ghost’s voice is rough and quiet, nothing like how his mom sounds when she plays her piano. Tony loves listening to mama, but he likes the ghost’s voice too. She doesn’t always sing when Tony is falling asleep; sometimes she sings right after lunch, and Tony thinks that maybe the ghost thinks he’s still a baby that takes naps. He doesn’t anymore, because sometimes after lunch his dad will let Tony come into the workshop to watch him (but never,  _ ever _ touch anything) and if Tony takes a nap he doesn’t get to.

 

Some days the ghost doesn’t sing at all, and it’s harder to fall asleep.

 

It’s one of those nights, when the ghost doesn’t sing at all, and even though Jarvis has read him  _ two _ stories and he’s had a cup of warm milk and turned his pillow over to the cold side, Tony can’t sleep.

 

“It’s ‘cause the ghost isn’t singing,” he tells Jarvis in a confidential whisper as the butler adjusts Tony’s pile of pillows yet again. “She’s not singin’ me a lullaby.”

 

Jarvis frowns. “What ghost, young sir?”

 

“Y’know,” Tony waves a hand, “the ghost. She sings to me at bedtime.”

 

Jarvis’s expression clears, a smile now hovering at the corner of his mouth. “Ah. That is no ghost, Master Stark.”

 

Tony listens, rapt, as Jarvis explains that everyone in the world has someone meant especially for them, someone who will fit them in every way. “A soulmate,” Jarvis says, and Tony can’t restrain his gasp of awe.

 

“Music is magical, Master Stark.” Jarvis tucks the thick duvet in around Tony. “It’s how we can find our soulmates. It’s how I found Anna and how, someday, you will find your soulmate. Whenever they listen to music, you can hear an echo of that song. The ghost you hear must be your soulmate’s mother singing to them.”

 

“Wow.” Tony lies back and regards the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling as he processes that. Then he turns back towards Jarvis, a frown troubling his young features. “Sometimes the ghost sounds sad. My soulmate’s mama is sad.” A distraught expression spreads over Tony’s face and he bolts upright, frantic. “Maybe my soulmate is sad! I don’t want them to be sad!”

 

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Jarvis quickly assures him. He captures Tony’s flailing hands in his own and squeezes them gently. Tony takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself. It doesn’t entirely work, and Jarvis frown-smiles at him. “How about we give them something nice to listen to, just in case?”

 

Tony slowly nods and lays back down. Jarvis settles more comfortably in his chair and clears his throat.

 

Jarvis isn’t as good at singing as mama is, but Tony doesn't think anyone is. Still, his voice is low and smooth and Tony is asleep in minutes.

* * *

“My soulmate is at the circus today,” Tony announces one spring afternoon. Tomorrow is his thirteenth birthday, and he’s in the kitchen helping Jarvis make cookies for the party tomorrow. He got to come home from boarding school last week, Howard is out of the house, Jarvis is pretending not to notice Tony sneaking bites of the batter, and cheerful circus music rings in Tony’s ears. It’s a good day.

 

“That’s wonderful!” Jarvis smiles at him. “Your soulmate doesn’t get to do fun things like the circus very often, do they?”

 

Tony shakes his head, now sporting a frown. Life hadn’t seemed to be going so great for his soulmate since that day five years ago when the ghost had stopped singing and Tony heard the mournful wail of a funeral dirge. He’d still been young enough to fling himself into Jarvis’s arms, breaking his (Howard’s) rule about crying for the first time in years in sympathy of his soulmate’s loss.

 

Soon after that, Tony was shipped off to boarding school. He had felt furious and betrayed to be abandoned so thoroughly, and although part of him wanted to comfort his soulmate with happy songs or calming melodies, he’d played rock music, too loud and too harsh, late at night when nightmares caught him and Jarvis wasn’t around to assure him it was just a dream. In return, his soulmate listened to classical music: Beethoven and Mozart and Tchaikovsky and, bizarrely, the occasional faint country song.

 

Tony thinks they might both be seeking refuge from their troubles in music.

 

The circus is good news. Everyone loves the circus! Tony’s only been once, because Howard thinks they’re a waste of time, but he remembers how much he’d loved it. Hopefully his soulmate has fun.

* * *

Tony is in the middle of fucking his Literature TA (she only likes him because he’s rich, and Tony knows it, but it’s a good a way to lose his virginity as any) when the soft strains of Stravinsky drift through the room. Suddenly he’s eight years old again, listening to his soulmate mourn and unable to do anything about it.

 

Tony feels sick. He rolls off the girl (Sarah? Stephanie?), ignoring her squawk of indignation as he takes deep breaths and suppresses the urge to vomit.

 

How can he have sex with some random girl when his soulmate is out there, lonely and suffering?

 

It’s illogical, Tony knows. Only 32% of the population actually finds their soulmates. It’s perfectly acceptable, even encouraged, to pursue other relationships. Why deny yourself love and happiness, waiting for someone you might never meet?

 

Tony knows the math, memorized the statistics seven years ago when he’d been worried that he’d never be able to find and comfort his soulmate, but although Tony loves math, loves the way that numbers make sense the way that people don’t, no one has ever accused him of being logical. He’s simply unable to bring himself to have sex with anyone else. He’s not “saving” himself for his soulmate, doesn’t believe in that bullshit, but somehow it just feels wrong.

 

Still, there’s certain advantages to a playboy reputation, including warding off anyone that might be foolish enough to try to pursue a long-term relationship with him. Tony makes out with drunk boys and girls at parties (he’s not picky, and it’s a great “fuck you” to his old man) and lets the paparazzi see. Then he pours their drunk assess into his bed and lets them sleep it off while he works on his latest AI project. They always assume they were just too drunk to remember the sex (as if Tony would ever sleep with someone who wasn’t sober enough to consent!) Some of his “conquests” sell their stories to the gossip rags, elaborate tales of Tony’s sexual prowess and his extensive collection of sex toys. None of it is true, of course, but Tony figures the stories are always good for a laugh.

 

He confides in Jarvis and his best friend Rhodey, but the general population soon believes him to be a sex demon. Tony can’t bring himself to care.

 

Then Jarvis and his parents die.

 

Obie comes over with a bottle of Talisker and his condolences, and Tony gets wasted and doesn’t ask if Howard was driving drunk, why he was driving at all. He doesn’t think he could handle the answer.

 

He helps carry Jarvis’s casket, red-eyed beneath his sunglasses. He sits on the first pew and listens to the organ and wonders if his soulmate cries for him, too.

Tony’s accepting his second doctorate when something very strange happens.

 

He doesn’t care that much about the ceremony, the fifth one in as many years. Education is just one of the many ways he procrastinates in taking over Stark Industries since his twenty first birthday a few months ago.

 

Tony’s not paying attention, bored with the procession and the speeches and the drama of it all. Then, overlaid over the constant repetition of Pomp and Circumstance, he hears circus music.

 

This in itself is not especially odd. The music has been a near daily occurrence, and Tony had come to the conclusion that his soulmate had joined the circus after their mother’s death. It seems an odd choice for someone who adored Russian ballets, but Tony isn’t going to judge.

 

It had grown annoying for a while, especially after the car accident, but Tony’s grown used to it by now. He tunes it out and goes back to trying to decide once and for all if Professor Jameson is wearing a toupee. His money’s on “yes.”

 

Then, over the processional music and the cheery circus organ, Tony hears the swell of music from Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. He frowns, more than a little puzzled. He knows his soulmate is a little eccentric, but attempting to listen to a symphony in a (presumably) crowded carnival tent is a new level of odd.

 

Tony almost misses his name being called, too caught up in puzzling over this new mystery. By the end of the ceremony he has a headache and a theory.

 

A bit of research confirms it. There are several thousand recorded cases of people with two or even more soulmates. Tony appears to be one of them.

 

“Great,” he sighs aloud. Dummy beeps curiously, and Tony grimaces at him. “I’ve got to find two of ‘em.”

* * *

He doesn’t find them, though. There’s a surprisingly large amount of circuses in America, and his other soulmate’s taste for all kinds of international music doesn’t let Tony narrow down their location even to the US. He remembers how the ghost always sang near his own bedtime, though, which gives Tony hope that they’re in a time zone close by.

 

The thing is, Tony probably  _ could _ have found them. He has the money and the resources to seek them out. But he doesn’t.

 

Instead, he loses himself in alcohol and partying and, for a few years in the 90’s, drugs. He never fucks anyone, for whatever that’s worth, but only scotch can numb the burn of guilt in his chest. He blasts ACDC and Black Sabbath through the speakers in his workshop and doesn’t let himself think about his soulmates.

 

Tony used to wonder, when he was younger. What gender where they? What was their favorite color? Would they like robots as much as he does?

 

Now, though, he knows better than to torture himself with such figments of the imagination. His soulmates deserve better than a fucked-up alcoholic who designs death for a living.

 

He can’t stop himself from listening, though. Literally can’t; earplugs don’t work for music that’s just in his head, and blasting music only serves him to give a migraine when three songs layer over each other.

 

The circus music disappears a few weeks after his 24th birthday, and Tony can’t stop himself from feeling grateful. He can’t imagine that life in a circus, however fun it seemed to his fourteen-year-old self, would be very fulfilling for his soulmate.

 

There’s a few more funerals (too many), four graduations, and a constant, complex, and frequently irritating combination of classical and country music. Tony doesn’t let himself mark down the dates when “Happy Birthday” is sung and certainly doesn’t let himself play “Happy Birthday” back to them.

 

“They’re better off without me,” he mumbles one morning, somewhere between hungover and still drunk from the party the night before. There’s three empty bottles of spray cheese on the floor of the workshop next to him, and he has a vague recollection of an unfortunate incident involving them and the son of an oil tycoon. His PR guy is going to kill him.

 

“Who, sir?” Tony jolts at the sound of JARVIS’s voice, still not used to the sound of his father figure resurrected.

 

He has to swallow back a lump in his throat before he can answer his new AI. “No one, J. Don’t worry about it.”

* * *

In Afghanistan, Tony wakes to blinding pain in his chest and someone singing softly in Hindi. HIs classical soulmate has been traveling a lot recently, and Tony can only hope that he’s alright.

 

Then he has to focus on himself again because  _ oh god, _ there are  _ hands _ in his  _ chest _ and Tony screams and takes a moment to be grateful that his soulmates can’t hear.

 

He has reason to appreciate that screaming doesn’t count as music many times over the next few weeks. A few of the guards play American pop music on a beat up speaker as they torture him. Tony wonders, near delirious with pain and terror, if the sound goes muffled when they shove him underwater for his soulmates, too.

 

Yinsen asks him if he has any family and Tony taps along with Bach on his knee and shakes his head.

* * *

Things change after Afghanistan. Obie dies, Tony almost dies, Pepper gets the promotion she deserves, a Norse god falls out of the sky in New Mexico, Captain America is defrosted. It’s a crazy few years.

 

One morning Tony wakes up and realizes he’s a mostly-virgin quickly approaching the wrong side of forty whose closest friends, while fantastic, mainly interact with him in a work environment and number only three. His main hobby is wearing a metal suit and getting shot at, and he ignores his soulmate’s music.

 

It’s pathetic. He tells the bots as much, and Butterfingers trills sympathetically. Dummy makes him coffee, which is unfortunately seasoned with motor oil and therefore toxic, but Tony appreciates the thought anyways.

 

“Right.” He claps his hands and stands from the cot he’d collapsed on the night before (pathetic). “Let’s find me soulmates.”

 

He supplies JARVIS with their birthdays (of course he memorized them), which gives them a good start. Still, it leaves Tony with thousands of possible candidates, especially since Tony can’t be sure when they were born (though he really hopes it’s within ten years of himself).

 

Tony spends a half-hour scrolling through the lists and manages to eliminate a few hundred, but he soon realizes how futile an approach that is.

 

Time for Plan B.

 

Tony waits until he hears music again - a lilting Iranian melody and Garth Brook’s drawl - before nodding at the ceiling. “Hit it, J.”

 

The song opens in the middle of the verse, overly bright and not at all Tony’s style.

 

_ “You could travel the wo-orld, but nothing comes close to the golden coast-” _

 

“Cut it, J.” For a moment, silence rings - from his soulmates as well as himself. Tony swallows thickly. “Try again.”

 

Red Hot Chili Peppers, now.  _ “Stuck in Californication, stuck in Californica-” _

 

He hears something over the wail, and Tony immediately silences the music. There’s the soft strum of a guitar - his country soulmate, then - followed by a timeless classic:  _ “Hey there Delilah, what’s it like in New York City-” _

 

The music stops abruptly, and Tony has to sit down before he falls down. A response. His soulmate is in New York City. He can’t suppress a delighted and only slightly manic laugh.

 

They can communicate after that, kind of. Tony learns that his circus soulmate is male (though the vast number of songs about trucks, beer, and sex had made him suspect as much) and a big fan of coffee. Once, they spend an entire morning once playing “Taylor, the Latte Boy” back and forth at each other.

 

Their classical soulmate is much more reserved. Whereas Circus Boy jumps full into their strange little conversations, they chip in rarely. Tony manages to garner his gender - male, and wouldn’t that infuriate Howard, his son having two, male soulmates? - but his only other clues are the ever changing languages of his music. His classical music is a constant, though, and on his worst nights, when Tony wakes up in a cold sweat, dreaming of filthy water in his mouth and a hand around his heart, an orchestra comforts him from half a world away.

 

Tony knows he doesn’t deserve them, doesn’t deserve the happiness they bring him, but he can’t convince himself to stop listening.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take note of the tags: There is referenced suicide contemplation and attempt in this chapter, and although it's brief and not very graphic, please read with caution.

Loki is a surprise. He’s also got terribly inconvenient timing, and Tony scowls at Agent when he appears with a dossier and a total buzzkill of the mood. It’s rare that Tony just gets to spend time with any of his friends, and he’d really been looking forward to catching up with Pepper. It’s not to be, however, and Tony watches with resignation as the elevator doors slide closed on his fun night of celebrations.

 

Still, the night isn’t a complete loss. Tony finally has a reason to learn more about nuclear fusion as applied to astrophysics, and the profiles that Agent brought him definitely catches Tony’s attention. It’s good to see Natashalie is still around kicking ass and taking names and deceiving dying tech execs. Tony doesn’t spend long on her file; he doesn’t need to give himself more nightmares.

 

It’s a shame to hear about her partner, Barton. The evidence that Loki can apparently mind-control brilliant agents like him is more than a little concerning, and Tony hopes absently that they won’t wind up having to kill the guy.

 

He barely skims through Steve Roger’s report - Howard had made very sure that his son knew everything about his legendary buddy Captain America. Thor is likewise dismissed - he may be Loki’s brother, but Tony already hacked into SHIELD and read his file once the whole “dying from internal heavy metal poisoning” business was over with. It’s not every day a Norse god and his band all but destroy a small New Mexico town, after all.

 

He pauses again on Dr. Banner’s file. Somehow Tony had missed that one of his favorite atomic physicists had gained the ability to level swathes of Harlem. What can he say, superheroing doesn’t leave much time to catch up on the latest scientific articles.

 

It’s pretty damn cool, Tony thinks, though judging by the reports from the soldiers who experienced “The Hulk” up close and personal, the general public doesn’t feel the same.

 

The general public are all idiots anyways, Tony figures.

* * *

The awkward ID photo they’d included in the man’s file really doesn’t do Bruce justice, Tony decides. He’s far more adorable.

 

Tony presents him with a babble of words, a handshake, and his most charming grin. Banner blushes and shuffles his feet and his smile is tiny but precious.

 

Tony might be a little bit in trouble.

 

His pesky feelings don’t fade when they start working together. Tony isn’t relaxed, not really. Loki surrendered far too easily, the tesseract and a small army of brain-whammied SHIELD agents are still on the loose, and he doesn’t trust Fury’s smarmy, black-leather-clad ass as far as he can throw it. It’s easy to forget his paranoia, though. Bruce is just too damn distracting.

 

He’s a  _ genius _ , pure and simple. Honestly, looks  _ and _ brains  _ and  _ an ass that Tony wants to highlight in tailored slacks because the pair Bruce is wearing barely do it justice. The first time Bruce returns one of Tony’s wisecracks with a witty one-liner and a cautious smile, Tony has to stop himself from kneeling and proposing right then and there.

 

Instead he pokes and jokes and tries to convince Bruce of the pure epicness that lurks inside him (alongside Big Green). Tony wants to see Bruce strut.

 

He invites Bruce to visit Stark Tower after the whole “angry demigod wants to destroy the world” thing is over with, desperate to keep this incredible man in his life for as long as possible.

 

As always, though, Tony remembers his soulmates. They’be been pretty quiet the last several days, and Tony hopes they’re alright. As incredible as Bruce is, as sexy and brilliant and funny, Tony can’t forget the men who already own his heart.

 

Bruce is cracked around the edges, a machine with gears out of alignment, and the engineer in Tony longs to fix what’s broken, to make Bruce alright again, but he can’t. He won’t.

 

Bruce isn’t his to fix.

* * *

“That’s the guy my dad never shut up about?” Tony snorts at Rogers’ retreating back. “Maybe they should have kept him on ice.”

 

Bruce chuckles, a short, stifled thing that’s ashamed of its own joy. Tony has to work to hide his smile anyways. A laugh from Bruce is a victory.

 

A laugh at Captain Hard-Ass’s expense is even better. Tony whistles a slow, mocking rendition of the first verse of “The Star-Spangled Man with a Plan” and is rewarded by another short laugh. Bruce has turned back to his station, and his eyes are fixed on his work, but a smile dances around the corner of his lips.

 

Tony’s triumphant grin freezes on his face as a quietly whistled melody drifts through the room. He glances sharply at Bruce, but the man is focused on tweaking his algorithm.

 

_ It can’t be… _

 

Slowly, deliberately, Tony whistles the chorus again. There’s a few moments of silence, during which Tony stares intently at the side of Bruce’s head and tries to maintain his chill. Then, quiet but distinct, “The Star-Spangled Man” rings in his ears.

 

Again, Bruce doesn’t react.

 

‘ _ Of course he isn’t reacting,’ _ Tony thinks, mildly hysteric. ‘ _ He just heard me whistle, I’m the only one hearing an echo.’ _

 

He honestly doesn’t know what to do. It’s a fair guess to assume that Bruce (brilliant, lonely, gorgeous Bruce) must be Tony’s classical soulmate. He’s never expressed an interest in meeting, never joined in their “conversations.” And Tony knows, kind of, how much Bruce has suffered. He heard the pain in Bruce’s mother’s voice, heard her funeral music, heard music turned up to cover shouting, heard the loneliness of constant travel from country to unfamiliar country.

 

Bruce has suffered, and Tony can’t really blame him for not wanting to add a fucked-up soulmate to his list of miseries.

 

He’s getting ahead of himself, Tony realizes. Maybe he’d just imagined it (unlikely) or his soulmate might be listening to someone else whistle that song somewhere else in the world (doubtful) or maybe a SHIELD agent is lurking in the events and whistling the song back at them (Tony wouldn’t actually put it past them). 

 

The point is, Tony might be mistaken. Bruce might not be Tony’s soulmate (though a part of Tony really hopes he is).

 

There’s really only one way to know for sure.

 

“JARVIS.” The word comes out in a croak. Tony clears his throat and tries again. “JARVIS, put on my tunes, would ya?”

 

Across the room, Bruce snorts and shakes his head, apparently already resigned to the idea that Jarvis is in the helicarriers sound system.

 

Sure enough, ACDC’s “Back in Black” begins to blast through the speakers (though not at Tony’s usual decibels - Jarvis is far more considerate of the SHIELD scientists in the surrounding labs than Tony is). Tony barely registers the familiar lyrics, too intent on watching Bruce. He doesn’t even try to keep his gaze subtle, his eyes locked on Bruce’s adorable curls as he waits for the echo.

 

The next few seconds are the longest of Tony’s life. He actually holds his breath, his stashed pack of blueberries turning to blueberry mush in his white-knuckled grip.

 

Then, finally, the opening chord plays again, discordant and odd over the rest of the song.

 

Even if he hadn’t been watching Bruce like his life depended upon it, Tony would have been hard pressed to miss the way that Bruce’s head shoots up like a rocket. Wide brown eyes meet Tony’s, and Tony can’t contain the wide grin he can feel spreading across his face. It’s true. He’s finally found one of his soulmates.

 

“Bruce.” The name is a reverent gasp on his lips. “Finally. I’ve waited- I’ve wanted you for so long. I heard- I heard everything.” Tony has to stop and swallow thickly, his silver tongue lead in his mouth. Bruce is still staring at him with wide eyes, frozen. It’s not exactly the joyful meeting Tony had imagined as a kid, complete with tears and laughter and maybe some fireworks.

 

“I am-” Tony’s breath hitches, “I am so sorry. You’ve gone through hell, several times over.” Tony takes a step towards Bruce, tries to cross the meters-long chasm between them. Bruce stumbles backwards,  _ away _ from Tony, and Tony freezes. Something tightens painfully in his chest.

 

He speaks quicker, desperate. “I know I’m not...ideal, I know I’m a mess, but I can be better for you! I  _ will _ be better for you.”

 

Something like horror is spreading across Bruce’s features. Tony speaks even more hastily, stumbling over the words, his heart racing with terror. He can’t lose this man, not after he finally found him.

 

“I’m trying to do better. I-I know I can never really recompense all the innocent lives that were taken because of my blindness and idiocy. I know that. But I’m trying to-to right my wrongs, to make the world a better place. That’s-That’s gotta count for something, right?” Tony’s mind is racing. He recalls reading that Dr. Banner is a bit of a pacifist, so he hastens to add, “I’m not making weapons anymore, I don’t know if you heard that while playing doctor in third world countries, but I’m not. I’m not selling death anymore, and I’ve tried to destroy all my weapons.” Tony chances another step towards the still-frozen Bruce and is relieved when the other man doesn’t step away.

 

“I can be a better man for you, Bruce, Tony says, quiet and earnest. “Just-just give me a chance. Please.”

 

But Bruce is shaking his head, and Tony feels his heart sink down to somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles. “No,” Bruce says, a choked sound barely above a whisper. “You’re- I can’t- you deserve more than- You’re brilliant, but I’m-” He stumbles back another few steps and into a lab table. Something clatters to the floor, but they both ignore it. Bruce swallows loudly, his eyes still blown wide in terror. Tony feels sick, horrified at himself, that he could be so awful that his soulmate, one of the men who should fit him in ever way, is  _ scared _ by him.

 

“Have you found him? Our other-”

 

Tony shakes his head, a sharp jerk of motion. “No.” His voice is a hoarse rasp. “Just you.”

 

Bruce stares at him, mouth open as if searching for words. Tony watches him desperately, eyes soaking in every detail of Bruce’s face. He knows Bruce’s next words will be a condemnation, a conclusion to a relationship that never really began. Tony wants to remember this moment, remember the face of the man he’s longed for all of his life.

 

But then JARVIS beeps, alerting them with the incredibly awful timing that even the most intelligent of artificial intelligences can’t avoid. Tony steps back to his screen, guilty relief flooding through him as he uses Fury’s awful but totally predictable deviousness as an excuse to prolong the inevitable for a little longer.

 

Then the Star-Spangled Asshat is back, and Tony’s emotionally mature enough to admit that he might be acting a little unfairly as he lashes out with all the anger and grief boiling inside him.

 

Then Bruce is grabbing the scepter and shouting at the room that he’s tried to kill himself,  _ oh god. _ Tony’s heart actually skips a beat as he stares at Bruce in petrified horror. He remembers, suddenly, being nineteen and drinking himself into a hospital bed because Jarvis will never again sooth his nightmares, being twenty-four years old and contemplating one of his prototype guns because he’s lost himself in drugs and alcohol and maybe his soulmates would be better off without him, thirty-six and watching poison crawling across his chest and wouldn’t it be so easy to just give up and remove the world of his taint, once and for all?

 

The mere idea that Bruce had thought the same, had taken it one step further and nearly deprived the world of such genius, the thought that Tony could have never even met this brilliant man, makes his heart beat hard and fast against his arc reactor and a cold sweat break out across his skin.

 

But then their search algorithm dings a success, Tony’s tech as ill-timed as ever, and the tension breaks. Bruce provides a dry one-liner, bitter and haunted, and Tony feels his heart crack.

 

He watches Bruce silently. The urge to step forward and embrace him, to soothe the man who had suffered so much is almost overwhelming. The universe is not in the habit of accommodating the desires of Tony Stark, however, so of course that’s when the helicarrier rocks with an explosion.

 

Tony loses sight of Bruce in the ensuing chaos, but he can’t allow himself to panic about it, because now they’re falling out of the sky and Tony isn’t too pleased about it.

 

He hears The Hulk’s roar while he’s forcing the helicarrier’s propellers to do their jobs. The blades spit him out, bruised and thoroughly annoyed, just in time to watch a giant green figure splash into the ocean 20,000 feet below them.

  
Tony is as useless as ever, perpetually unable to help his soulmates. He watches the white foam from the landing disperse in the waves and presses a hand to his aching chest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise things will get better. Eventually. Also, Clint will finally show up in Chapter 3, posted on Wednesday, so keep an eye out for that!
> 
> Again, I live (and write) for kudos and comments (especially the latter!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I just wanted to say thank you to all of you amazing readers. This fic hit 100 kudos which kind of blows me away a bit considering how rare this pairing is. I'm invigorated by your comments and your love! Thank you!

Loki, Tony decides whilst falling from his own tower, is an  _ asshole _ .

 

His tech saves him, of course, because Tony is a genius. He gets one good shot in, which is viciously satisfying, even if he knows it won’t keep Loki down for long. Then the sky is ripping open and honest-to-god  _ aliens _ are pouring out into the city, so now Tony’s got that to deal with. Great.

 

It doesn’t take long to realize that Fury might have been on to something with his plans for their boyband. They all work well together, gears sliding into place in a surprisingly well-oiled machine.

 

Tony manages to look past decades-old resentment because Rogers really is an incredible tactician and a damn good soldier. Natasha is terrifyingly deadly, as always, and although Tony can’t appreciate the grace in Thor’s “smash my foes with my mighty hammer,” it’s certainly effective.

 

He’s mildly pleased to see that the SHIELD agent, Barton, somehow managed to break the mind control. Tony likes him, he chimes in with jokes and doesn’t bitch about Tony’s nicknames (unlike  _ some _ Captains). He’d probably be even more fun if he wasn’t still coming to terms with being forced to betray his friends and fellow agents. Maybe Tony’ll ask him out for a drink after this.

 

Bruce is nowhere to be found. Rogers is obviously skeptical, but Tony holds out hope. Bruce will come. Tony knows his soulmate, and Bruce isn’t the type of man to abandon them to their enemy when he could fight.

 

Sure enough, he comes puttering in wearing borrowed clothes and riding an ancient motorcycle. Tony doesn’t quite manage to keep the joy out of his voice at the news.

 

Despite the witty banter and the pure awe inspired at seeing the Hulk in action, it’s hard to maintain a good mood as the battle continues. Manhattan had started to evacuate as soon as it was confirmed that Loki was there, but there are still too many citizens on the streets. Even the emergency personnel who react to the threat are in danger. The NYPD, after all, face the most action at the occasional gang fight. They aren’t prepared to battle motherfucking  _ aliens. _ (Tony’s not sure he is, either).

 

Said aliens keep coming, wave after endless wave pouring through the wormhole (Tony’s inner sci fi nerd is silently flailing over that). When the third space whale (Barton’s name, but no one can come up with anything better) floats into view, Tony has to bite back a scream of frustration. He’s a genius, he runs the numbers, and there’s no way they can win this with that hole providing fresh reinforcements every five minutes.

 

Then, as if things weren’t awful enough, there’s a nuke.

 

Fucking fantastic.

 

Luckily, there’s a convenient tear in space to deposit it, and the news that Natasha will be able to close it afterwards is even better. Wouldn’t do to irradiate New York City in the fallout.

 

Rogers, of course, forces Tony to confront the reality of his actions. He knows it’s a one-way trip, thanks. But Tony’s only one man, and not even a particularly good one. His death is worth the hundreds of millions of lives he’ll save. It’s a very heroic move.

 

Tony doesn’t feel like a hero, though. No, as the nuke presses hard and lethal against his back and the abyss looms ever-larger in front of him, he’s just scared.

 

“JARVIS,” he manages to croak out as he clears the top of the Empire State Building. “Gimme some Prince.”

 

“Of course, sir.” Tony silently thanks his AI, that wonderful machine with human sorrow in his voice.

 

_ “I never meant to cause you any sorrow. I never meant to cause you any pain.” _

 

The other end of the wormhole looks very dark.

 

_ “I only wanted to one time see you laughing. I only wanted to see you laugh-” _

 

He passes into the wormhole, and the music cuts off. Tony is left in silence, horrid, all-encompassing silence. It is dark and quiet and the ships explode in front of him and still there is  _ no sound _ .

 

Tony imagines a crescendo of violins, a strain of circus organs.  _ ‘I’m sorry,’ _ he thinks, as futile as ever.

 

The explosion embraces him, and Tony closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

He’s woken by a roar, which is nearly as shocking as the fact that he wakes  up at all.

 

Tony gasps and stares up at a brilliantly blue, perfectly unmarred sky. Captain fucking America grins down at him and he can hear his soulmate, the  _ Hulk _ , shuffling around behind him, kicking at alien corpses.

 

How is this his life?

 

* * *

 

They pin Loki in place with Mjolnir and leave a platoon of SHIELD agents to babysit him while they go out to eat. No one has any other suggestions, so they visit a shawarma joint that’s managed to escape the worst of the damage (and there is so much of it, a city destroyed, and Tony’s aching body protests all the clean-up work Iron Man will be helping with in the next days and weeks).

 

They’re all exhausted and nursing various injuries. Besides muttering out their orders to a shell-shocked waitress, they sit in near silence. The shawarma is as good as Tony had hoped it would be, but he barely appreciates it.

 

Bruce looks like a mess, wearing tattered clothes and scarfing down a truly incredible amount of food. He won’t meet Tony’s gaze, and the food tastes like ash in his mouth.

 

Someone in the kitchen turns on the radio and flicks through half a dozen stations of frazzled reporters announcing that, “yes, Todd, you heard me right, real live aliens invaded New York City,” to settle on some oldies station.

 

Tony grimaces and he sees Bruce do the same, neither anticipating hearing the already horrid techno-pop overlaid over itself. They get almost a minute’s respite, then there it is, Olivia Newton-John singing over herself.

 

Across the table, Barton’s cup clatters to the floor, coffee splashing everywhere as the archer bolts to his feet.

 

They all flinch, instincts still on a hair-trigger after nearly three hours of fighting. Romanoff recovers the fastest.

 

“Clint?” She carefully lays a hand on his shoulder, and Tony catches the way her eyes flit over his, checking for any hint of blue. “What’s wrong?”

 

“I don’t know.” Clint looks around the circle of confused and concerned faces, his eyes wide. “Did any of you-”

 

OJN starts another verse of poorly-disguised sexual innuendo, and Clint points a wild finger in the general direction of the radio. “There! Do any of you hear that echo?”

 

Tony doesn’t get it at first, but Bruce understands people far better than he likely over will. “Oh,” he says quietly, and turns toward Tony.

 

It clicks.

 

“Holy mother of Thor,” Tony blurts out. Clint whirls to face him, ignoring Thor’s confused, “what?”

 

“You-you hear that ?” Something like hope spreads across his face, and Tony begins to smile.

 

“Yeah. That’s- wow. Discovering my soulmate thanks to ‘Physical.’ What a day.”

 

Clint’s beaming. The other Avengers (the name seems appropriate) seem to be ranging from confused to amazed, but Tony pays them no mind. This is a little more like what he’d hoped for as a kid. “You must be ACDC,” Clint says, a laugh in his words.

 

Tony nods, grinning just as widely. “Yeah, that’s me. I mean, yes, I’m a fan of rock.”

 

“I noticed,” Clint says dryly, and Tony’s grin stretches impossibly wider. “Do you know who Beethoven is?”

 

Tony ignores Steve’s muttered “Beethoven?” and opens his mouth to reply, but Bruce beats him to it.

 

“I am.” The words are quiet, and Tony realizes that his other soulmate is still sitting, eyes down as he picks at his food.

 

Tony abruptly falls off of cloud nine and back into reality. Bruce still detests him, and Clint doesn’t know him yet; surely his apparent delight will disappear once he discovers how much of an asshole Tony really is. Tony attempts to school his expression into blankness. Judging by Natasha’s sharp look, he’s not terribly successful.

 

Clint looks back and forth between the two of them, his smile faltering. “Great,” he says, excitement soured by the questioning tone of the word. “I mean, yay for us! We found each other!”

 

“Yeah,” Bruce mutters, eyes on the last of his shawarma. Tony can only nod and swallow his agony. 

 

* * *

 

Communication is key to any successful relationship, Tony knows.

 

Well, he knows it more in theory, an idea that most romantic comedies and the soulmate relationship guides he’d read on some of his more self-flagellating days had led him to believe. All of them are very clear: problems in relationships will only fester and everything will get so much more awful if couples don’t talk it out.

 

“Well, we’re really starting out great,” Tony mumbles underneath his breath, his own special brand of morbid sarcasm, as he watches the door shut firmly behind Bruce. He’d offered to host the Avengers in the undamaged guest floors of his tower - “superheroes need their super-sleep, right?” - and they’d all agreed. Secretly, Tony had hoped that a night under the same roof would give him time to build up the bridges his reputation had razed between him and his soulmates, but it didn’t look like he’d get the chance.

 

“What?”

 

Tony spins around to find Clint standing behind him, arms folded across his chest and watching him with raised eyebrows. Tony frowns, both confused and discomfited by the judgement he senses in the gaze. “Your bedroom is down the hall,” he repeats.

 

Clint snorts incredulously. “Really, you think I’m just going to sleep? I found my soulmates today!” A grin breaks out across his face, apparently irrepressible. “I’ve been waiting for this day all of my life! Like hell am I just ignoring that and heading to bed.”

 

Tony stares at Clint blankly, but something fragile like hope dances through him. “Yeah, I-” he chances a small smile, “I’m not going to be able to sleep, either.” He doesn’t mention the void of space and Clint doesn’t say anything about Loki, and the understanding lies between them like a warm, breathing thing.

 

Clint breaks the silence. “You want a drink?”

 

Tony raises an eyebrow as something settles in his chest. “Really? We’re in  _ my _ house, Katniss.” Still, he obligingly leads the way to the wet bar in the common area. “What kind of chap date offers his soulmate their own alcohol?”

 

“I’ll make it up to you after we get Prince Crazy-Eyes off of our planet again.” There’s tenseness in Clint’s shoulders, in the corner of his smile, and Tony adds another finger of scotch to the glass.

 

“Here,” He slides it across the counter before picking up his own glass. “Cheers.”

 

Clint’s grin relaxes and he tips his glass against Tony’s. “We found each other. Cheers barely cuts it.”

 

Tony hides his smile behind his glass.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Of ‘course you like beer,” Tony is saying later. It’s almost two in the morning, but he’s still relatively coherent, the benefit of years of practice. “You’re a- a country hic. Can’t appreciate a good scotch.”

 

“Hey!” Clint gesticulates wildly with his Budweiser, unfortunately not as invulnerable to the effects of alcohol. “Don’- Don’t diss coun’ry. ‘S good music.”

 

Tony snorts as he knocks back the last of his (eighth? ninth?) glass. “They’re all about, uh, trucks and beer and sex.”

 

“Those are all great things!” Clint protests loudly. Tony shushes him, and they dissolve into giggles for several minutes.

 

“You’re really drunk,” Tony informs Clint with a grin.

 

Clint laughs again, relaxed and care-free. “So’re- so are you!”

 

Tony giggles. It’s true.

 

“What are you doing?” A new voice sounds from the doorway. Tony spins toward it so quickly that he falls off the bar stool. Clint cackles, and Tony aims a kick at his leg from his crumpled position on the floor. He misses, and Clint laughs louder.

 

Tony harrumphs and rolls over.  _ ‘This floor is actually quite nice,’ _ he thinks fuzzily.  _ ‘Italian marble.’ _

 

A figure appears above him, and Tony beams. “Brucie-bear!” Bruce’s lips twist, and, oh, right, he hates Tony. He shouldn’t have gotten drunk, Tony realizes. Now Bruce hates him even more for being an alcoholic fuck-up.

 

He struggles to climb to his feet, ignoring Clint’s delighted, “heeeeey, Bruce!”

 

“You’re both very drunk,” Bruce observes aloud, voice dry, “and very loud.”

 

_ ‘We woke him up,’ _ Tony things with a jolt of mingled guilt and horror.  _ ‘Way to go, Stark.’ _

 

“Uh,” he tries, “Sorry. We didn’t mean to wake you up.”

 

“You should join us!” Clint exclaims. He’s stolen the toothpicks from behind the bar and is flicking them like mini spears into the corkboard that some idiotic home decorator put up by the sink. Despite his intoxication, his aim is perfect, and Tony sees a smiley face in the rows of toothpicks.

 

Bruce’s shoulders tighten and he looks away. “I don’t drink,” he says shortly.”

 

Tony flinches. “Sorry,” he blurts out again. “Sorry for drinkin’. We can- I’ll stop. Uh, forever. I can stop drinking.” He can feel Clint’s gaze on the back of his head, but he doesn’t turn back, can’t face the expression there. “Just, uh. Don’t leave.”

 

Bruce is watching Tony with wide eyes. “Tony, this isn’t-”

 

“Wait, wha’?” Clint stumbles over to stand between them. “You’re leavin’ Bruce? Why?”

 

Bruce hesitates, his eyes flicking towards Tony. Something that tastes like heartbreak lodges in Tony’s throat. “It’s ‘cause of me.” Clint turns to stare at him, slack-jawed. Tony looks away. “I’m, uh, I’m not really a good guy, y’know. I’m a narcissistic asshole, drink too much and don’t play well with others. I don’t care about anything but myself and that-  _ I _ killed a bunch of people. I’m- I’m not safe. I put people in danger, the people close to me. I’m hard to like, let alone lo-”

 

“No,” Bruce blurts. The veins in the marble floor blur in Tony’s vision. He’s not even allowed to say the word. But Bruce is still talking. “No, Tony, I swear, you’re not- I’m not leaving because of you! It’s me.  _ I’m _ dangerous. I’ve slaughtered innocent people. I’m a monster! I could hurt you, could  _ kill _ you,” his voice cracks on the word, and Tony drags his eyes up from his inspection of the floor to meet Bruce’s distraught gaze, “and I wouldn’t even know about it until I woke up! I  _ have  _ to leave, for your sa-”

 

“You guys ‘re idiots,” Clint says loudly, as if coming to a realization. Bruce turns to gawk at him, and Tony does the same. Clint blinks back, frowning.  “No, i mean, I know you’re geni-  geniuses. But… you’re bein’ real stupid.”

 

Tony scowls, drunk and offended. “‘m not stupid!” Sure,  _ Bruce _ is being stupid, thinking he’s a monster, but Tony is being extremely logical. He’s smart and mostly mature and he’s destroyed enough relationships to know the truth about loving him.

 

“Then stop actin’ like it!” Clint shoots back. “Look, we’re soulmates, right? We  _ belong _ together!” Bruce opens his mouth, but Clint cuts him off with a scowl. “We’re all dangerous, we’ve all killed people, even innocent people. That’s why we match!” He reaches out to grab Tony’s hand (their callouses catch and drag against each other and Tony’s breath catches in his throat), then reaches for Bruce’s. “We can handle ourselves, an’ we can protect each other!”

 

Tony stares at Clint, at the hand in his, at Bruce. “We fit each other in every way,” he breathes, an echo from his youth.

 

Clint beams and nods. Bruce looks down, and Tony reaches out to take his other hand. Bruce blinks. His eyes shine.

 

“Okay.” It’s a whisper. He looks up, a smile creeping bravely across the lines of his lips. He repeats himself, louder.

  
“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended this with them standing in a circle holding hands how FUCKING CHEESY IS THAT.
> 
> You may have noticed that I added another chapter! I've decided to treat all of you lovelies with some more established relationship and fluff to combat all this angst, so look for the epilogue on Friday!
> 
> As always, I greatly appreciate comments!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I promise pure fluff? Whoops.

It isn’t perfect all the time, because life never is, but it’s good.

 

* * *

 

A week after they bid adieu to Thor and Prince Crazy-Eyes, Bruce runs away. Tony knows when he leaves, because he’s in the workshop and JARVIS tells him. Tony lets him go, even though something between terror and desolation claws at his throat as he watches the camera feed of Bruce quietly stepping into the elevator, only a duffle bag of clothing over his shoulder. Bruce needs this, Tony knows.

He wakes Clint the next morning with toast and scrambled eggs and the news that their soulmate has left. Clint sighs heavily into his third mug of coffee.

“He doesn’t trust us yet,” he says, resigned.

Tony grimaces. “We can’t really blame him, though. His life has been more Sky Scream roller coaster than ‘It’s A Small World.’“

Clint snorts at the metaphor, and they get sidetracked into talking about amusement parks and how even the most epic roller coasters can’t really measure up to their own lives.

Bruce’s absence is a physical ache, though, and Tony watches Clint rub at his chest and knows that they need their soulmate back.

He tracks him down in a tiny city in Ethiopia, and although it takes less than a week to find Bruce, they don’t go after him just yet. “He needs time to adjust to the idea of us,” Clint says, and Tony nods. “I mean,” Clint continues with a grin, “the amount of pure awesomeness condensed into the two of us is pretty hard to handle.” Tony laughs, and they manage to wait another two weeks before their loss is too much to bear.

They don’t play games, don’t trick him, because there’s an unspoken understanding between them that they have been lied too often in their lives. They don’t need to lie to each other.

Tony stands outside of the shack where Bruce is sleeping in exchange for healing some kid’s pneumonia. He wears shades and ragged jeans, but he still sticks out like a sore thumb. Bruce steps through the doorway and immediately his shoulders slump. Tony’s expecting a lot of things, really. He expects Bruce to run away, to get angry, to ignore him. He certainly doesn’t expect Bruce to sigh heavily and cross the street to him, step into the space that Tony so carefully keeps free of others, and lean against him.

It’s not an embrace, not quite, but Bruce drops his head to rest against his shoulder and his warm exhales brush Tony’s collarbone and Tony closes his eyes and smiles. He feels more than hears Clint step out of the nearby alley (they hadn’t wanted to overwhelm Bruce) and walk to them. Clint takes Bruce’s hand and presses a kiss against his temple and something clicks back into place between them.

“We’re taking you home,” Tony says, a gentle order, and Bruce nods.

 

* * *

 

It takes another week and a half for them to all sleep together (in the literal sense) and it’s mainly by accident. Clint comes home from another psychological evaluation with a wide grin and the news that he’s finally being reinstated as a full agent. They celebrate (even though Tony knows the same fear for their soulmate, fragile and human in his simple Kevlar torments Bruce) and put on Wall-E because its Clint’s favorite and Tony doesn’t criticize the inaccuracies because he’s proud of his soulmate.

It’s late, and he and Bruce have just come off a thirty six hour science bender, so Tony’s not surprised to look over and see Bruce slumped against Clint’s side, snoring softly. He entertains and dismisses the idea to break out the sharpies and whipped cream because Bruce has earned restful sleep. Clint grins at him, and Tony knows he’s thought the same thing.

Tony grins back and slumps against his other side (those beautiful biceps make amazing pillows) and isn’t too surprised to wake up the next morning still on the couch. Clint’s drooling a little into the pillow he’s propped up behind him, and Bruce has a hand twisted in Clint’s shirt and Tony does break out the sharpies now.

Clint wakes up just as Tony’s filling in his handlebar mustache and laughs for a solid three minutes and Bruce wakes up, disoriented and sporting adorably messy hair and smiles shyly at them both.

 

* * *

 

Sex never really becomes a thing. Clint asks one day, more curious than demanding, and Bruce blushes and ducks his head and explains asexuality and Tony shrugs and explains that he’s gone his whole life without sex and he doesn’t really need it now. Clint thinks about it for a moment before he nods decisively. “It’s really not all that it’s cracked up to be,” he tells them, and they laugh.

They cuddle and kiss and share a bed and it's perfect for them.

 

* * *

 

Tony wakes up one day in an abandoned warehouse, tied to a chair, and it’s so cliche he wants to laugh. There’s even a typical villain monologue from an old white dude with an eye patch and Tony really can’t resist the urge to mock him, physically can not, and although he gets a few backhands for his trouble, the sour expression on the dude’s face is totally worth the trouble.

Tony stops laughing when they drag out a tub of water. He freezes, terror grabbing him like a physical thing, and he can’t even will his limbs to fight as they drag him out of the chair and force him to his knees in front of it.

It’s different, Tony knows it’s different. He’s got an arc reactor in his chest, not a car battery with vulnerable wires. He’s in a damp warehouse, not a hot Afghani cave. The monologue is in English and the water is clean and he’s a hero now goddammit not an idiot wasting his life away in alcohol and ignorance. This time there’s people with the ability and the determination to find him.

But logic has no place, here, and Tony panics as they push his head under, fucking _loses it_ , screaming and thrashing and inhaling water, his brain completely whiting out in terror. He doesn’t beg, doesn’t comply to whatever they’re demanding of him, but he cries and he hates himself for it.

Then there’s a roar, terrifying and beautiful, and Tony sobs his relief as he’s dragged away from the tub and the entire far wall of the warehouse collapses into rubble under the force of a giant green fist.

One of the goons drags him upright and presses a gun into his temple, cold and hard enough to leave a mark, and barks demands for the Hulk to “stay back, stay the fuck back, or I’ll shoot him, don’t think I won’t,” but his voice shakes and a second later he releases Tony and falls to the floor. Tony turns to see a purple-fletched arrow sticking out of his forehead and can’t bring himself to feel an ounce of remorse.

The rest of them are dead in minutes, smashed into pulp by the Hulk or felled by Hawkeye. Tony stands in a circle of bodies and shivers in his soaked suit and can’t even bring himself to wipe away his tears.

The Hulk picks him up, so so gentle, and sits down with Tony pressed up against his chest and Clint runs up and wraps his arms around him and whispers “you’re safe” into his ear as Tony shudders with sobs.

 

* * *

 

They all have nightmares, dreams that are more memories than fiction.

Bruce doesn’t cry out, just shakes under the covers until they drag him out of the dream with a hand on his shoulder and a voice in his ear. They hold him, afterwards, wrap him tight between them as he falls apart. JARVIS plays Tchaikovsky over the speakers.

Tony can’t be touched after his nightmares, flinches under even the most gentle of touches as if they are blows, and Clint and Bruce have to let him wrap himself into a ball in the corner and call to him from a safe difference that he’s safe, that he’s not there anymore, that he’s okay.

Clint can’t hear them, usually, unless he forgets to take his hearing aids out before he goes to bed, so they have to shake him awake roughly, and sometimes it takes only a moment and sometimes it takes a small eternity for him to wake up. He keeps crying out, small, wounded things, until he gets their familiar faces under his calloused hands, can trace the veins in their hands, and grounds himself in reality once more.

They all have nightmares, but they’re together, and they're okay.

 

* * *

 

They go to the symphony once, one of the special pieces by Bach that soulmates can actually enjoy together because there’s pauses to hear the echoed refrain. Tony’s bored out of his mind, fidgeting in his chair and entertaining himself by imagining how to improve the instruments. Judging by the speed of Clint’s fingers tapping against his armrest, he’s not enjoying it much, either, but Bruce is enraptured and that’s enough for them.

 

* * *

 

Clint comes home one day with an absolute mutt of a dog, skin and bones and completely covered in mud. Bruce can never resist Clint’s pleading expression, the sap, and Tony's absolutely delighted to have the dog Howard never permitted.

They name him Lucky, “because we are,” Clint says, because he is also a total sap. Clint runs with him every morning and Bruce slips him food from the table and Tony teaches the bots how to play fetch with him.

 

* * *

 

They share secrets, whisper them to each other in the dark because the day is no time for such hidden horrors.

“I didn’t see him hit her until I was five, but I think it was happening long before then,” Bruce confesses, his hand over Tony’s arc reactor so the room is completely dark and they can’t see his tears. They don’t have to ask him who he’s talking about, but they press him tight between them and prove to him that he is loved.

“Sometimes, when Barney was being a particular kind of asshole and I couldn’t stand it anymore, I would take out my hearing aids so that all I could was our music,” Clint whispers against Tony’s shoulder, and Tony presses a kiss to the top of his head and Bruce grips his hand tight.

“I was a stupid teenager and he felt more like a father to me than Howard ever did. I was so stupidly oblivious that I didn’t really understand what was happening until he ripped out my heart,” Tony says, his eyes on the ceiling and a hand clenched in his shirt over the reactor. Bruce tells him that he's perfect and Clint kisses the arc reactor.

Tony loves them so much that it scares him.

 

* * *

 

“Hey,” Clint says one morning, and Tony looks up from his coffee and shares a glance with Bruce because that’s the tone of faux-casual that leads to confessions of shattered vases and requests for goo arrows.

Clint catches the look and scowls. “No need to look so obviously suspicious, guys. It’s not anything bad.” That does absolutely nothing to allay their fears and it must show on their faces because Clint’s scowl darkens.

“I’m just tryin’ to ask you guys to marry me, don’t look at me like that!”

Shocked silence falls for a moment as Bruce stares, wide-eyed, and Tony’s jaw literally falls open. Clint blushes.

Tony recovers first. “Clint, sugar plum, I love you,” and it only took him five months to be able to say it, “but I sense a few holes in that particular plan.”

“We’re male, which isn’t quite a problem because we’re soulmates, but last I checked, polyamorous marriages aren’t legal, even for soulmates.” Bruce points out.

“I know that!” Clint shoots back. “But I love you both, and we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, and I want to finalize that, even if it’s just to ourselves.” His voice drops to a whisper and Tony thinks of all the times Clint has been abandoned, and he steps forward to hold his hand.

“Of course we’ll marry you,” Bruce says, and Tony is so proud of him, of the confidence he carries now, of the brightness of his grin.

“You can help me design the rings,” Tony tells them, before pinning Clint with a look. “I gotta say though, Barton, that was the most unromantic proposal I’ve ever heard of.”

Clint smiles crookedly. “On our first date I treated you to your own alcohol, what did you expect?”

Bruce laughs at them both.

 

* * *

 

The rings are simple, two gold bands that interlock into one. They engrave their names into each ring.

They have a ceremony of sorts, with all of their closest friends. Natasha officiates because apparently she once had to ordain a wedding for a mission and the state of New York still registers her as an officiate. Pepper cries and Rhodey slaps him on the back with a wide grin and a, “I knew you’d settle down eventually, Tones!” and Tony scowls at him for approximately .2 seconds before breaking into a grin of his own.

Tony finds Bruce reading a letter from Betty Ross and he’s crying but they seem like happy tears so Tony pulls him into a hug before they rejoin the celebrations.

Steve seems a little lost in it all, but he’s genuinely happy for them, and Tony officially apologizes for the words on the helicarrier months ago, and they hug and it’s all very cheesy.

Halfway into the evening, JARVIS alerts him that someone is requesting entrance to the penthouse. Tony checks the camera feeds to see an unfamiliar man with Clint’s nose. Tony hesitates only a second before he grants him admission. The man shuffles into the penthouse and when Clint freezes and stares at him, he smiles crookedly and whispers a “hey, kiddo.” Clint punches him and then drags him into a hug and Tony sees Natasha smile with satisfaction.

They end the night sprawled on the couch, Tony laying over both of them and Bruce leaning against Clint. Natasha laughs at something Pepper says, muffled in the kitchen, and Tony can hear Steve and Rhodey sharing war stories. Lucky snores at their feet, and Barney waves goodbye on his way out. Clint runs his fingers through Tony’s hair and Bruce idly traces formulas on his stomach and Tony thinks that this is what happiness feels like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and encouraging me through the longest fic I've written in a long time. Your comments legitimately fuel my soul and my desire to keep writing. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this ending, and remember if you'd like to prompt me or see more of my writing, you can check me out on [tumblr!](http://anthonyfuckingstark.tumblr.com)


End file.
